Will struggled to formulate a reply. He bit back a harsh rebuke. “Get up, get outside, get fresh air,” had not worked in any of the dozen ways he'd worded it so far. Guilt, all too familiar, plagued him. He had failed to protect her during her debutante year. He left her in the care of his naïve parents, who saw only the good in people. If he had stayed, he'd have investigated Emery Wheatly and known him for the selfish rotter he was. He wouldn't fail her again.
A discreet scratch at the door relieved him of the necessity of a reply.
Sylvia ignored the knock.
“Enter,” Will said.
The door opened, and a young boy trussed in formal clothing and unsullied linen entered the room, escorted by his tutor. The boy looked ready to choke on his collar. Charles, the new duke, worried him even more than his sister did. The boy acted like an old man—a fearful, perpetually nervous old man—nothing like a child, nothing like the delightful boys who chased pigs and imagined goats as angels. At ten, he had yet to attend school, yet to visit London, yet to ride a horse. The late duke intended him for Eton, but any effort on Will's part to broach the subject with the boy's mother resulted in another outburst of uncontrolled weeping.
“My darling!” Sylvia exclaimed. "Come read to me while my tonic works its magic. You know how your voice soothes me."
“Sorry, Mother. We are in the midst of studies and?—”
“Do studies matter more than your mother?” she snapped.
“Of course not,” Mr. Franklin, the tutor, soothed. “Your Grace's needs always come first.” He gave Charles a shove toward his mother.
“Has he finished his Latin?” Will demanded.
Mr. Franklin startled. He had not seen Will, and obviously wasn't happy to see him now. The man had avoided every effort Will made to inspect the boy's studies. The toady would rather court the duchess's approval than educate his nephew properly.
“Today's lesson went well,” the man replied stiffly, eyes on the duchess.
“Latin!” Sylvia mocked. “Poor boy. Come here, my darling, and comfort your mother.” She pulled an obviously reluctant Charles into her arms. When he pulled back, she pushed a book into his hands. “Read to me, my sweet.”
Charles looked at it with distaste. Will put an arm around his shoulder. The book contained poetry of the sloppiest, most sentimental kind. “What were you studying?” Will asked the boy.
“We just started the English Civil War, Chadbourn,” the boy said sadly, a note of longing clear in his voice.
The earl's lips tipped up. Any red-blooded boy would rather learn about war than read inane poetry. Perhaps there is hope for him yet.
“Uncle Will,” he corrected, not for the first time. “When your mother sleeps, come and look for me in the estate office.”
“Yes, Uncle Will,” the boy said meekly.
“What do you want with my son?” Sylvia demanded.
“Did you know there are two boys close to his age living nearby? I thought Charles might?—”
“Unthinkable! We do not go there.” Sylvia said, chin up. “Emery forbade it. They are not people we wish to know.”
You can't be. They never come here, the one named Freddy had said. Will remembered the boy's insistence on it, and the woman—Catherine—reminded him of his manners. Interesting.
“Why did Emery object?” he asked.
“He didn't wish us to see his…” Sylvia paused, glancing at Charles. “It is not to be discussed.”
She patted a spot next to her on the chaise and pulled Charles forward. The boy threw one last glance at Will and, with the look of a prisoner going to his fate, began to read.
She may not want to tell me why the neighbors are ignored, but I'll find out sooner or later, Will thought. He left quietly.
Charles knocked on the estate office door soon after, as requested. “You wanted to see me, sir?” he asked.
Will exchanged a few words with the boy about his studies, encouraging his interest in history. When he ordered Charles to the stables, however, panic filled the boy's eyes.
“I can't!”
“We've discussed this. A young man of your station must ride. We'll take it in stages. I know you can do this.” Will had waited two months since the boy's father's funeral. Enough was enough.
